


Of A Cold, Loving Embrace

by queenseamoose



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2050422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenseamoose/pseuds/queenseamoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are those who would call my death a tragedy: dead at twenty-four, betrayed by those I loved most. But they couldn't be any further from the truth. My life was the tragedy—and what followed after was something else entirely..."</p><p>Antoinetta Marie tells the story of her own sinister destiny, from her twisted childhood in High Rock to her time in the Dark Brotherhood and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beyond the Veil

I have waited here long. Cold, stiff, ever watchful, and waiting. Always waiting, languishing in the arms of our Mother. For this is the realm of Sithis you have stumbled across, and this is  _our_  domain: the domain of those who served our Dread Father in life—and of those who were claimed by his servants.

I know that I am dead. I have been dead a long time, or so I believe. Time, I think, is something that doesn't quite flow the same way here. An era may pass in your world, or perhaps merely five minutes. It's all the same here. In fact, I'm not so sure time exists at all. Not anymore.

There's a question on your lips, one you've been musing over ever since I first mentioned Sithis. There are two kinds of souls here: that, you understand—but which was I? Was I a heartless assassin, or an innocent victim?

In truth, it was the former. Yes, I was an assassin: taker of lives, harvester of souls. But before you get that look on your face, let me tell you of an impossible truth I learned long ago. Not all assassins are heartless, and not all victims are innocent.

Oh, I don't mean to absolve myself, of course. I tell no lies; I know what I've done. But I've come to terms with it. I'm hardened—yes. Evil—perhaps. Callous—to be certain. But heartless? Never.

I may be a mere shade before you now, but in life, I was a  _person_. Human. A Breton, to be exact—if that specific racial category still has meaning. I was more than just the kills I made. Even assassins are not without emotion. I had hopes, I had dreams, just like any other. I knew love, and I knew loss. I was  _very_ well acquainted with the latter, and even here, beyond the end of all things, I can still feel its ache.

Perhaps that is why I am still here: a ghost of my former self, yet intact, when so many others have completely weathered away. Nothing lasts in the Void, you see—not sentiment, not attachment, not memory—only the darkness and the terrible, eternal power of the Dread Father. But I endure.

I can't explain why I linger here. Some curse, perhaps: that I was fated to go on  _remembering_. For it's not just my tragic memories—my most joyous memories have come to pain me as deeply as my darkest ones. I told you I was no stranger to loss, and Fate—Fate is  _never_ kind. But without those bright memories—those stolen blissful moments—things on the other side may have turned out  _quite_  differently.

Nothing lasts in the Void—yet I can see it all so clearly. The walls of the Sanctuary rising up around me. The sharp scents of wild herbs, brewing into the deadliest of poisons. The feel of a dagger in my palm, a gloved hand wrapped around mine; a low, silken voice whispering in my ear. Yes, I can see it all, even the endless expanse of tundra bordered by snowy mountains beneath a boiling dark sky, the place where it all began…


	2. Spooky Little Girl

I was born in the north country, where sparse, prickly vegetation is dotted with juniper trees beneath the craggy shadow of the mountains. Where grey skies loom overhead for half the year, and heavy snowfalls persist the other half. I know the land, but I can barely remember what our house looked like. I can, however, still see the nightshade plants scattered throughout our garden. I don't know why such a toxic plant was permitted to grow unhindered, but for some reason, I believe it had something to do with my mother. That may not be entirely accurate, of course, for I didn't just have one mother—I had two. There was the woman who birthed me, only to pass from this world, moments after I entered. And there was the Night Mother.

How can I explain the Night Mother? Sithis is easy—the Dread Father, collector of souls. Sithis is darkness, Sithis is emptiness, Sithis is the Void. But the Night Mother—the Night Mother is different. Born eras ago as a mortal woman, she is both the founder of our order and our direct link to Sithis. She smiles upon her favored daughters, and we live to please her. It is her embrace that we rest in here in the Void. Is it so strange, then, that I should come to think of her as my true mother?

But although my memories are hazy regarding my mother, I can still remember my father. Even those memories are faint though; just of a man with a thick blond beard and a merry laugh, and of stories of adventure told by the fire deep in the night. The clearest memory I have of my father, however, is of the day he was buried.

I remember that day because the sun was shining—a rare occurrence in the north. But the wind was anything but rare, whipping past and taking the priest's words along with it. I stood at the graveside wearing a too-large black dress, a hand-me-down from my cousin Brigitte, whose hand I tightly clutched. She couldn't have been more than a few years older than me, but she'd appointed herself my guardian, and was taking her responsibility very seriously.

"Stand back, Annie," she said, pulling me back from the edge of my father's grave. But I shook my head, causing my already-messy blond braids to come further undone.

"I want to see Papa," I insisted, straining against her hold. My four-year-old brain still lacked the ability to comprehend death, but I understood that my father was in that pit—and that this would be the last time I would see him.

The news had come several days ago that the wreckage from his ship had been found, but I hadn't understood until Tania had sat me down and explained everything. That my father's ship was a good one, but the sea had a mind of its own, and even the best ships could not hold out against rocks. And that Papa had gone to be with Mama in Aetherius, but they had found him, and would bring him home so that we could say goodbye one last time. I'd cried, but when my tears had dried up, I'd nodded and told Tania that I understood—but in reality, I thought my father was standing down in the bottom of the hole—and I didn't understand why Brigitte wouldn't let me go talk to him.

So instead, I pouted, crossing my arms over my chest and refusing to look at Brigitte. She had switched her hold to my upper arm, and whenever I would sneak glances at her to see if she was really paying attention, her grip would tighten. I had just decided to stomp on her foot as hard as I could and dart forward, when the priest finished speaking, and the adults surrounding me began to fall into a line, filing past the hole and tossing handfuls of dirt in.

"Come on." Brigitte pulled me into the line. "We have to pay our final respects to your papa." Respects? I didn't understand. They were throwing dirt on him, of all things! Papa would be so upset. Whenever he returned from sea, all grimy and salt-stained, he always insisted on immediately taking a bath. Even if he had to leave to go be with Mama, he would never stand for this. Any minute, he would climb out of the hole and make these people stop. They'd be sorry they ever crossed him. I smiled at little at the thought as Brigitte and I waited in line.

But when we reached the edge of the pit, I was disappointed to look down and see nothing but a wooden box. "That's not Papa." I began to tug anxiously on my cousin's skirt. "Brigitte, Papa's not there."

"It's because he's dead, Annie." Brigitte stretched her hand over the pit and opened it, allowing the dirt to sprinkle over the box. "They just put his body in the box so we can say goodbye to him."

I mimicked Brigitte, picking up a handful of dirt and tossing it over the edge. But I was frowning as I did so. Papa wasn't at home and he wasn't at sea—but he wasn't here, either. Where was he, then? Tania said he had gone to Aetherius, and that was where Mama was—but Mama wasn't here. Mama wasn't  _anywhere_. So did what did that mean for Papa? I remember how the confusion haunted me the rest of the ceremony, following me home from the graveyard. Although I didn't know it at the time, I had just experienced my first taste of death.

* * *

When we arrived home in the afternoon, I headed straight to Tania's room, hoping she could tell me more about where Papa had gone. But instead, I found her sitting in the middle of the floor, her belongings strewn everywhere and her trunk sitting open beside her. I stood in the doorway, fists perched on my hips as I surveyed the sight before me.

"You made a  _mess_ , Tania," I said reproachfully, my words heavy with all the force of a four-year-old's disapproval. "You have to clean it up." I kept my own room tidy, my clothes carefully placed in the wardrobe and my dolls neatly lining the shelves.

Tania looked up at me with a faint smile, then pushed up off the floor, ruffling my hair before picking up an apron and beginning to fold it. "Afraid it doesn't matter much now, Annie," she said. She sounded sad, and I wondered if it was about Papa. "I've been let go. I have to be gone by evening."

"You're leaving?" Somehow, the idea of Tania being gone was worse of a shock than Papa. Papa was always leaving—the sea was "his calling," Tania said—but I couldn't remember ever being apart from Tania. "You can't go! Who's going to stay with me?"

"I have to." She tossed a pair of shoes into the trunk. "I was under your papa's employment, but now that he's gone, your aunt's in charge, and she says I've got to go. She'll be taking care of you now."

"But where will you go?" I could feel my face getting hot, and I knew I was about to cry. A sudden, horrible thought occurred to me. "You're not going to Aetherius too, are you?" At the idea of Tania being gone— _really_  gone—the tears began to well up in my eyes.

Tania's eyes widened a little as she saw me start to cry. "No!" She crossed the room in two quick steps, and then her arms were wrapped around me, my face buried in her apron. "No, Annie. Sovngarde won't call me for a long time. No, I'm just going back home, back to Markarth. I'll stay with my family for a while until I can find work."

"Let me go with you!" I pulled away and eagerly looked up at Tania. She had told me all about her home city of Markarth, a mysterious place built by the Dwemer, filled with secrets and intrigue. "I want to see the rivers run with silver and blood!"

Tania winced. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you that," she muttered. She gave a long sigh. "But you can't come with me, Annie. You have family here." She stepped away and began gathering the last of her belongings.

"But Tania," I protested, beginning to feel desperate. "I don't  _like_  them as much as I like you." She placed a few books in her trunk and slammed the lid shut, clicking the lock into place.

"You don't  _know_  them," she admonished. "At least give them a chance. Brigitte seems nice." She began dragging her trunk to the doorway, pausing to give me one last hug. "Hang in there, Annie," she said. "You're a tough girl. You'll be just fine." And then she was gone, and I was alone, except for the sound of Tania's trunk thudding down the stairs.

I sat in my window and mournfully waved goodbye to Tania until the carriage that came to collect her disappeared around the corner. And after that, I cried, facedown in my bed clutching the doll she'd made for me until Brigitte came to fetch me for dinner. I'd sat up in bed and scrubbed my face clean, and didn't shed another tear afterward.

* * *

Tania was right; although she was bossy, Brigitte was nice, and we became great friends that winter. My uncle was a quiet, nervous little man, and although I didn't spend much time around him, he seemed decent enough. My Aunt Claudette, on the other hand, was very strict and quick-tempered, and it didn't take me long to decide that I didn't like her—at all.

I would spend my days with her, though, tagging along after her around the house performing chores and working on lessons. But when Brigitte came home from school in the afternoon, we would head outside to play, and the adventures would begin. Brigitte had a wonderful imagination, and at her urging, sticks became swords, icicles became scepters, and snow became the elements from which our palaces and subjects alike were formed. We were ice queens, and our domain stretched from there to the sea—or at least to the edge of the garden.

We also spent a fair amount of time playing with my cat. Her name was Tabby, and Papa had rescued her from the docks when I'd been barely more than a baby. The next winter, much to the delight of Brigitte and I, the gardener informed us that Tabby was expecting kittens.

Although Tabby took refuge in the stables when the winter winds grew too frigid, she was still an outdoor cat. And although spring was well on its way, Brigitte and I worried about the kittens being exposed to the still-blustery weather. So one afternoon, when my aunt was busy arguing with a courier, Brigitte and I snuck Tabby inside and hid her in a corner of the pantry.

Tabby was well into her pregnancy at this point, and she didn't seem to mind having her adventurous ways curbed in the slightest. She happily settled into the nest we made for her behind a sack of potatoes, and as her belly got rounder, Brigitte and I became more excited.

Then came the morning I snuck into the pantry to discover three blind little balls of still-damp fur. It was all I could do to contain my excitement as Tabby looked proudly on, even allowing me to wriggle behind the potatoes and gently stroke the kittens with a single finger. Brigitte could barely stifle her squeal as I whispered the news to her when she arrived home that afternoon, and we both immediately rushed to the pantry.

In retrospect, of course, we were reckless. We wanted to spend every spare moment with the kittens, and we did just about that. We should have known my aunt would grow suspicious, but in our excitement, the thought didn't even cross our minds. So we abandoned caution and grew sloppy, not realizing my aunt was watching.

On that fateful afternoon, Brigitte and I were sprawled on the floor of the pantry, playing with the kittens. They were several weeks old by now; their eyes had opened, they had begun to eat solid food, and they were growing more rambunctious every day—which was very quickly becoming a problem. Perhaps what tipped my aunt off in the first place was that Brigitte and I had suddenly grown very helpful in the kitchen, immediately springing to volunteer every time she needed something from the pantry. We had little choice, though; the entire pantry had become the kittens' personal playground. They chased each other around the perimeter and attempted to scale the shelves—and there was always the risk that if we opened the door, one of them would dart out.

We were so intent on arguing over what to name them that we didn't hear footsteps approaching. Without warning, the door swung open, and my aunt loomed over us. "What on Nirn could you two possibly—" She began to speak, but her voice immediately cut off as she caught sight of the kittens. We stared up at her, petrified with terror as the fury began to build in her eyes.

"Mother." Brigitte was the first to recover her senses, quickly leaping to her feet. "Mother, it's not what it looks like, I'm sorry, I—" She was cut off as my aunt's hand lashed out, striking her across the face.

"I don't believe my eyes." My aunt's voice was crackling with wrath. "For weeks, the two of you have been skulking around, and  _this_  is what you've been hiding? Keeping these filthy animals in the same place we keep our  _food_ , for gods' sakes?"

"No, Mother, they're not dirty, and we pick up after them—"

"Enough!" my aunt snapped. "I don't want to hear any excuses. What have you been feeding them, hmm? We can't  _afford_ to feed four extra mouths. What you did was stupid, irresponsible, and just plain wrong." She stormed over to the back door and threw it open. "Raul!" she yelled.

"Mother, we're sorry." Brigitte's tone had a note of pleading, and somehow, that scared me to my very core. "We'll take them right back outside, and they won't be any trouble, I promise, Mother,  _please_." Brigitte's face had gone white with fear.

" _Raul!_ " my aunt shrieked again, and this time, the gardener appeared in the doorway.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked wearily. My aunt pointed to the open pantry door, where the biggest of the kittens, an orange tabby, could be seen struggling to climb over my leg.

"These cats need to be disposed of. Take them out to the river."

" _No!_ " Brigitte's voice rose shrilly. "No, Mother, please, you can't,  _please…_ "

"Silence, Brigitte!" My aunt's hand twitched upward, and my cousin shrank back.

"You sure about that, ma'am?" Raul was glancing uneasily between my aunt and Brigitte.

"Yes!" My aunt stomped back over to pantry, snatched an empty sack from a hook inside the door and thrust it in his direction.

"Yes, ma'am." And he took the sack and stepped toward the pantry.

" _No!_ " Raul didn't even budge as my weight barreled harmlessly into him, but I clung to him just the same, beating him with my fists as hard as I could.

" _Antoinetta! Enough!_ " my aunt's voice shrieked, and suddenly there were claws of iron locked around my arms, dragging me away. I could only struggle, screaming, as Raul scooped up the mewing kittens and unceremoniously dumped them into the sack.

"The mother, too," my aunt called, and I struggled harder than ever.

" _No, not Tabby!_ " Poor Tabby's eyes were wide with indignation as she was hauled up by the scruff of her neck and dropped in the sack as well. My shrieks turned unintelligible as Raul disappeared out the door, and I managed to twist an arm free and punch my aunt square in the jaw. As she recoiled, I broke free and ran for the door.

I made it halfway across the garden before she caught up with me, still screaming like a banshee as she wrestled me into submission. Through tear-blurred eyes, I could see Raul picking up stones from the edge of the river.

" _Let go of me_!" I howled, but I dissolved into sobs as Raul threw the sack, and it instantly disappeared under the surface.

My aunt released her hold on me for the briefest of seconds, only to spin me around, but I managed to scratch her face and once again break free.

I charged straight to the river, not hesitating for even the briefest of seconds. The icy water was a shock as I plunged into it, but I doggedly struggled forward against the current. " _Tabby!_ " I wailed. I dove beneath the surface, flailing out with my arms, but the water was too murky to see through, and my lungs began to burn. I surfaced, gasping for air, but as I submerged again, something locked around my waist and dragged me to the surface.

I twisted around to see a grim-faced Raul had gotten a hold of me. "Let me go! Let me go!" I shrilled. "Tabby!" But it was too late. Raul carted me back to the shore, where my furious aunt was waiting. I swung at her as she approached, but I saw stars as her own blow snapped my head sideways.

"Stop that," she hissed as she took hold of me again, dragging me back toward the house "You should be ashamed of yourself."

" _I hate you!_ " My shriek had gone ragged. "You  _killed_  Tabby, and I  _hate_  you! I wish  _you_ would die!" This time, there was a crunching sound, and something thick and metallic-smelling filled my nose.

"You ungrateful little brat." My aunt gripped a handful of my hair as she dragged me into the house. "I've taken you in and cared for you as my own and this is how you repay me?" She threw open the door to the pantry and threw me inside. "You will stay here until morning. Think about what you've done. Pray for forgiveness." And the door was slammed shut behind me, the click of the latch following.

I was shivering in my wet clothes, but a rage the likes of which my six-year-old self had never before known was bubbling up inside me, searing through my veins. I didn't know what I was supposed to be praying for. I didn't even know who I was supposed to be praying  _to_. Tania had taught me about Shor, about Kyne, about Talos, but in the end, the words that poured from me were directed toward no deity in particular. But I prayed.

I prayed that Tabby and her litter would crawl out of the river and take revenge on my aunt. I prayed that they would chew her apart, that they would tear her with their claws. I prayed that she would suffer. I prayed that she would die.

No ghostly cats came in the night, of course, and in the morning, my aunt came down to let me out and send me upstairs for a bath. Later that day, we went to see a healer about my broken nose, and my aunt prattled on about how my cousin always played too rough, while I sat sullenly glowering at her, not even bothering to call her out.

The watery sun still rose and set, the city continued on in its familiar rhythm, and I went back to chores and lessons. But things had changed—and it wasn't just that Brigitte and I no longer played together.  _I_ had changed. Despite my young age, I had reached out and touched the darkness for the first time. The rage had cooled to a simmer, but it lingered there beneath the surface, out of sight, out of mind. And although I didn't yet realize it, my prayers had been heard.


	3. Silence Dies

Two more things had changed by autumn. The first was that Brigitte was gone: my aunt had sent her off to finishing school in Evermore. The weeks beforehand were a flurry of activity; Brigitte had to have a whole new wardrobe made, and my aunt constantly lectured her on the importance of making connections and the risk of embarrassing the family—in high volumes at all hours of the day and night. By Hearthfire, she was on her way, and despite it being her first time away from home, I could swear the look on her face as the carriage rattled down the street was one of relief, not apprehension. The second change was that I had started school.

Later, when I would speak to others about their school experiences, the answers followed a fairly predictable pattern. They learned how to read, how to write, history, basics of magic, the best ways to smuggle discreet weapons (I knew several Shadowscales—more on that later). But this was High Rock in the height of the Empire, and we were Bretons. On the first day, twelve of us traipsed into the classroom and sat at our desks while our teacher handed out daggers. Our task? To prick a finger and heal the resulting wound. Let me remind you that we were six.

That was the way of things, and we didn't question it. Magic is something instinctual to a Breton, something that should come as naturally as breathing. Life was harsh, and we had to be prepared. Simple basics of language and arithmetic were something we were supposed to have already learned at home; whoever fell behind was left behind. Only the strongest—the best prepared, the most well-equipped—would survive; this was something we all understood, even at six.

But if those stringent standards weren't enough to motivate us, out teacher was. An Altmer with a frizzy white mane and bulging eyes, he would stalk the rows of our desks barking commands in a voice bordering on a shriek. We called him the Master, and for the first several years, we lived in constant terror of him. By the time we were about nine, however, he had become a running joke. During our breaks, as we gathered out in the garden, a casual passerby might hear us loudly mocking him to a string of constant giggles. This, I'm ashamed to admit, was largely my doing.

Understand, though: after years living with my aunt, very little intimidated me anymore. Yes, The Master resembled a wraith. Yes, he was prone to raging fits of near-hysterics when presented with anything less than perfection. Yes, he was unafraid to let us know exactly what he thought of our performance. But he had ever raised a hand against any of us—which was a constant threat with my aunt, although I hadn't required any trips to a healer since the kitten incident.

My fearlessness had made me a source of admiration among the other girls. In the complex social hierarchies of children, I ranked quite close to the top. But I was never the reigning queen—that title belonged to Carolara.

As much as my classmates feared the Master, I think they feared Carolara even more. Because although the Master's authority disappeared once we stepped out of the classroom, Carolara's did not. She had some noble title—the daughter of the Queen's second cousin twice removed, I think, or something similar—and she had the attitude to match it. The school's garden was her kingdom, and she ruled it with an iron fist.

In some ways, it was similar to the old games Brigitte and I had used to play. However, instead of gallant knights and swashbuckling adventurers, we were Carolara's ladies-in-waiting. Instead of slaying trolls, the other girls would bob around and curtsy while I braided her hair.

This pattern could have continued nicely until graduation, but for that one fateful afternoon. It was toward the end of the school year, and spring had arrived at long last. Weak sunshine became common in the mornings, but strengthened by afternoon. Plants sprouted to life, and the few species of songbirds that made their way this far north began to make their music. On the first truly warm day, we were gathered at our usual spot by the fountain, when we heard a cry from the corner of the garden. Our heads all immediately swiveled in that direction, and we saw Aurnie hurrying toward us.

Let me explain Aurnie. If Carolara was at the top of the social hierarchy, Aurnie was most decidedly at the bottom. She was the poorest of my classmates; her clothing was always sporting worn spots and frayed hems, and the lunch she brought was meager. Her hair was often disheveled, her nose was always running, and she had a narrow, pinched nose and a set of eyes too big for her face. She was frequently the object of Carolara's scorn, and in the cruel, cowardly way of children, I said nothing—deep down too afraid of Carolara to stand up for her. But despite it all, Aurnie Hawkston was about to alter the course of my destiny.

"Carolara," she wheezed as she approached. Aurnie also had a breathing problem—another detail Carolara used to mock her incessantly. "Oh, Carolara, you have to come here, you have to see." In all honesty, I don't know why Aurnie would dare to approach her—much less address the queen directly. But for the first time in her life, Aurnie had some interesting information—and judging from the notes of fear lingering in her tone, I think she thought it would be just enough to curry favor with the queen.

"I don't think so." Despite the fact that she was perched on the edge of the fountain and Aurnie awkwardly loomed over her, Carolara still managed to look down her nose at the other girl. "Now can you move? You're standing in my light," she said pointedly, tilting her face up to the sunlight as the other girls tittered. Aurnie backed several feet away, looking distinctly uncomfortable, but she doggedly persisted.

"You have to come here," she repeated. "You have to see it. I think it's dead." That got Carolara's attention.

"What's dead?" she asked sharply. She abruptly stood, and the rest of us followed suit. Aurnie swallowed nervously.

"It's…it's a little bird," she stammered, "and it's hurt. Really hurt. It's not moving, but I thought I saw some trace residuals when I tried to detect life…" Allow me to point out for a moment that despite her lack of social skills, Aurnie was smart. Smarter than all of us, in fact. She would eventually outdo us all; although that would inadvertently lead to her demise. I've met her—here, I mean. Even in death, she was still the strangest little thing.

But that was enough to pique Carolara's interest. Narrowing her eyes, she swept past Aurnie, the rest of us trailing after her. She stalked across the garden to the far corner, beneath the massive spruce that grew there. And we all gasped as we caught sight of it.

The little sparrow was very much alive. It fluttered frantically, struggling to gain momentum—but there was a dark stain on the ground beneath. My stomach clenched as I instinctively knew that it was its blood.

"Well," Carolara said. "We have to help it."

"Should we go get the Master?" a girl asked, and Carolara snapped around.

"Don't be stupid, Felicity," she growled. "He won't care. And we'll just get a lecture on how we should have known how to handle it ourselves."

"I could try a healing spell. If we could at least—"

"Shut up, Aurnie," Carolara hissed. The other girl wisely fell quiet. She may have earned some favor, but she was not yet securely in the queen's good graces. "No—we'll just have to take care of it. We need a box to put it in. Somebody get their lunch basket." There was a murmur of conversation, and some girl volunteered, dashing off back across the garden.

"And we need to get it a blanket. Jeanne, take off your scarf."

"But my brother just gave it to me. It's from Summerset Isle, and it—" Jeanne tried to protest, but Carolara's icy tone cut her off.

"I said—take it off," she ordered though clenched teeth. Jeanne meekly obeyed, and Carolara continued. "What do birds even eat? We'll need to get it some water, too—does anyone have anything to put it in?"

The brainstorming continued, but I had knelt down beside the bird. It let a few faint cheeps—cries of pain and frustration, not a merry song. As I looked closer, I miserably realized nothing we could do for it would do it any good. Not a Summerset Isle silk scarf turned makeshift blanket, not a few crumbs of bread torn from Sylvia's sandwich, not even one of Aurnie's healing spells. Whatever had attacked it, it had put up a good fight—and lost an entire wing in the process.

I reached out to stroke its silken feathers, but it barely even noticed, its eyes glazed over in shock. I jumped as several drops of moisture spilled onto my hand—I hadn't even realized I was crying.

It's too late for it. The faint whisper drifted across my consciousness. It can never be made whole. It will never take to the skies again—never raise its voice in song.

My vision blurred as the tears fell harder and faster. Do it now, the voice crooned. End its suffering.

A sob wracked through my body, and I reached out and gently took hold of it. Set it free…

"I'm sorry," I croaked. One quick twist, a faint crunch—and the bird went still in my hands. The fever faded from its eyes. The brief brush against my cheek may have been the breeze—or its spirit rising to join its feathered brothers and sisters in the sky.

"What did you do?" Carolara's voice suddenly lashed out. I set the bird's body down with shaking hands, and stumbled to my feet.

"I—I had t-to." I was really crying now, and my words broke with the sobs. "It was in so much pain, and its wing…w-we couldn't have…we couldn't …"

"What is wrong with you?" Even through the sobs, I could feel Carolara's voice rising, and I froze. "You—you killed it? Just like that?"

"I had to!" I sniffled, stifling back a sob. "It was in pain! We couldn't have helped it! Not even the Master can regrow limbs!"

"We were going to make a bed for it!" Carolara's face was turning crimson. "We even went and got an eggshell to put water in and everything!" Her eyes narrowed as she glowered down at me. "And you ruined it."

There was an old, familiar rage welling up in me. The poor bird still lay by my feet, its mangled wing facing skyward—and Carolara was angry that she didn't get to treat it as a living doll?

Insufferable little floozy! The inner voice welled up again, trembling with rage. How dare she? How dare she!

I could feel the tendons of my hand tightening, the muscles tensing along my forearm, up my bicep, through my shoulder. Make her pay.

My fist smashed forward like a blast of lightning—and I punched Carolara square in the face. She let out a shriek, her head flying backward, and I saw a spurt of blood. But she recovered, and the fury welling up in her face matched my own. "How dare you?" she roared, and then she hurtled forward, tackling me to the ground. And the fight was on.

I think the other girls were in a state of shock as we rolled around on the ground, ferociously exchanging blows. Faces were scratched, hair was pulled, and I think even teeth got involved in the mix. I was smaller, but scrappier, and in the end, I managed to wrestle Carolara into a headlock, punching her repeatedly as she wailed.

It was Aurnie, actually, who finally pulled me off of her, and several other girls managed to restrain Carolara as she rose to her feet and lunged for me again. She finally ran out of steam, slapping away several of the girls as they tried to help her straightened her skirts and smooth her hair. Once she had everything adjusted, she turned to me, eyes burning with malevolence. "Gods, Antoinetta," she snarled, wiping at the blood trickling down her lip, "you are such a freak."

She turned and stuck her bloodied nose in the air. "Ladies, we're leaving." And she set off across the garden. The rest of them followed, all stealing nervous glances in my direction as they went.

I had been unseated from my position as Carolara's lieutenant, I realized as I turned back to the poor, fallen bird. But I could hardly bring myself to care as I silently dug a grave for it. The other girls had gathered back by the fountain by the time I finished, but I knew better than to join them.

No one would even look at me as we gathered back inside to resume our lessons. But at the end of the day, I strode out of the building just as haughtily as Carolara. I should have been devastated, crying, groveling for forgiveness—but instead I was untouchable, filled with a burning sense of righteousness. That's the feeling, it would seem, when one takes the first step toward fulfilling her destiny.


	4. Darkness Rises

I never did regain my social status. In the years that followed, I became just as much an outcast as Aurnie. Poor Aurnie, though; the bird incident did little to improve her standing with Carolara. The others still whispered and gossiped: the only difference was that now there were two girls who sat silently with their heads down, pretending not to hear. We never became friends, though; perhaps we should have, but we rarely spoke two words. We didn't even look at each other—each of us too uncomfortable a reminder of what had transpired. Carolara and her court still gathered out by the fountain, but I remained inside during lunch, fiddling around with alchemy ingredients.

In a way, it was a miracle in and of itself that we were even permitted to study alchemy at such a young age. Although we were pushed into advanced magic remarkably early, the complex formulas involved in alchemy could prove daunting for even an experienced mage. And there were rumors—stories of a student years before who had made an error and created something horrible. Some stories said he blew up the lab, others said he had brewed a terrible, corrosive poison that ate though his alembic—and his hands, right in front of his classmates. Of course, it was just as likely that a parent had complained that the discipline was too rigorous for children our age, but regardless, alchemy had only been reintroduced to the curriculum that year.

But despite all the supposed danger surrounding it, I loved it. My desk was constantly littered with samples, my notebooks were filled with pages upon pages of magical effects and formulas, and drying ingredients hung all around my room at home. Even my dreams were scattered with various alchemical symbols.

At the end of our fifth year, the Master called to me as we were gathering our school supplies and filing out of the building. "Antoinetta!" he barked. "I would speak with you for a moment." Swallowing hard, I set my books down and made my way up the aisle to his desk. When it came to the Master, being ignored was essentially the same as praise, and if he had something to say to me, it was almost certainly nothing good.

Sure enough, as I approached, he held up a glass vial labeled in my handwriting. "This is wrong," he said bluntly. I drew in a breath as he glanced down at the label. "'Restore fatigue. Fifteen units for five minutes,'" he read. Then he glanced back to me. "That is not what this potion does."

I could immediately feel the blood rushing to my face. He rummaged along a shelf behind him crowded with hourglasses, and plucked up a smaller one marked in minutes. Selecting a spoon from a nearby rack, he handed it to me, along with the vial itself. "Test this. Tap the glass when the effect ends," he instructed.

I obeyed, unscrewing the vial and pouring out a dosage onto the spoon. As I swallowed it, I felt the faintest prickle of its effects: senses sharpening, tension easing. The minutes wore past as I waited, trying to look everywhere but at the Master. And then…

Nothing. I quickly tapped the glass, and the sand stopped flowing. The Master picked it up and squinted at it, then turned to me. "Three and nine tenths. Four at best." My face flamed even brighter, and I immediately began to apologize.

"I'm sorry, Master, I don't understand what happened. Next time I'll make sure to—"

"I don't want excuses." He interrupted me, and I fell silent. "I want to know what went wrong."

"I... Well, I…" I paused, struggling to remember where exactly the error could have possibly occurred. "Well, I did the calculations twice. Three times, actually. The formula had to be right," I insisted. But the Master only stared at me as I chewed a lip and tapped a foot against the floor. "The temperature?" I frowned. But the Master shook his head.

"The strength of the effect was not the problem. The length was." He crossed his arms over his chest, and I drew in a breath.

"Okay. The formula was right, the temperature was right…" My forehead creased as I settled deep in thought. "The water!" I straightened up triumphantly. "Impurities in the water could have interfered."

"But I have personally purified every drop of water used in the classroom," the Master pointed out, and my face fell once again. "You are on the right track, however." When I only met him with silence, he gave a long sigh. "What ingredients did you use?"

"Aloe vera and fennel. I have the notes…" I indicated back toward my desk, but he shook his head.

"Cast a spell for me. Just a small one, any one will do. Pay attention to the pull on your magicka." I did as requested, performing a weak shield spell, and immediately understood what he was referring to.

"It feels…"

"Drained?" he finished for me. "That would be because aloe vera and fennel both also display magicka damaging properties."

"I didn't know." My shoulders slumped in defeat, and the Master sighed.

"Of course you didn't. Beginning alchemists can rarely identify more than one or two effects of ingredients. But now that you  _do_  know, I trust you won't be making the same mistake again."

"Of course, sir." I nodded emphatically, and his eyes narrowed.

"I also trust you'll ask before performing experiments with imported ingredients," he added sharply. "Those samples you used were expensive, and now this entire potion is useless."

"Yes, sir!" I was getting off easy, and I was aware of it. But as I gathered my things, he called out to me once again.

"You have an interesting knack for this," he stated, his gaze scrutinizing as he studied me.

"Sir?" His words sounded suspiciously similar to praise, and my own gaze narrowed as I stared back at him.

"Next year, you can begin picking schools to concentrate in," he said. "I hope to see alchemy on your list." And then the Master swept past me and exited the classroom. His words replayed over and over again in my head on the way home. I practically danced through the streets, nearly giddy with excitement. At eleven, I couldn't imagine any higher accolade. I had  _arrived_. My future spread out before me, grander than I had ever realized. But little did I know, that would be the last time I would ever see the Master.

A week or so later, I was sitting with my aunt in the front room as she wrote out a shopping list. She had been in a remarkably good humor as of late, and so I dared to make a request. "I need ironwood nuts," I spoke up. "And also mugwort seeds. Can you put them on the list?"

She glanced up with a frown "Mug-what?"

"Mugwort seeds," I repeated. I took a deep breath. "Please, Aunt Claudette. I need them."

She sighed, shaking her head as she continued writing. "Whatever for, Antoinetta?" she asked flatly.

"For potions," I replied. "I need to practice alchemy. The Master said I'm good at it, and I want to pick it as one of my concentrations in the fall."

This time, my aunt actually set her quill down and turned to face me, her attention honed in on me entirely. "In the fall?" she asked, a doubtful look spreading across her face. "Antoinetta—you're not going to be here in the fall."

"What?" It was as though the entire world had come to a standstill. My heart froze in my chest, but my aunt simply rolled her eyes and turned back to her list.

"Close your mouth, Antoinetta, you look like a fish," she reprimanded. "And in Hearthfire you'll be going off to school in Evermore. With Brigitte."

" _Finishing school?_ " My voice reached a new volume as I abruptly stood, my needlepoint clattering to the floor. "You've  _got_  to be joking. I'm not going." Except my aunt never made jokes, and I could see the muscle of her jaw tightening as she once again turned to me.

"Antoinetta," she said, her voice hitting a dangerous note, "you are being disrespectful. Sit down." The vein in her forehead was pulsing, and I quickly recognized the warning sign and did as instructed. But my world was threatening to crumble to dust around me, and my hands were shaking as I picked up my needlepoint. Finishing school was filled with girls like Carolara, and all they learned to do was curtsey and smile before stabbing each other in the back. During her first couple of years, Brigitte had cried herself to sleep when she'd been home during breaks. Now, at fifteen, she was dead-eyed and vapid, her old spark drained away.

"I don't see why I need to go," I said, trying to keep my tone as calm and even as possible. "Brigitte already went;  _she_ can be the one to be a lady. I'll just be an alchemist."

"For the Divines' sake, why wouldn't you want to go?" My aunt sounded incredulous as she slammed her quill down, standing and crossing the room to loom over me. "This is an opportunity, Antoinetta. You'll be a peer to nobility. You could be a real lady someday."

"Being a mage is just as respectable as being a lady," I shot back. "Maybe even more. Mages are  _powerful_."

My aunt stared at me for a moment, and then she began to laugh—an actual, genuine laugh. I stared in horror, unsure of whether to make a quick exit—or to seek out a healer for her. "Antoinetta," she finally chuckled, "it takes a _real_  mage to have that kind of power. Your average hedgewitch is no more respectable than a common beggar, and I'll die before I see you become one."

My fists clenched, the Master's words of praise ringing through my head as tears blurred my vision. "May I please be excused?"

"You're going to cry now?" my aunt taunted. "You're not a child anymore, Antoinetta. It's time to stop acting like one."

"Can I be excused or not?"

She rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Go." She made a dismissive gesture, and I fled the room.

Out in the garden, I leaned my head against the wall and sobbed. My tears were ones of anger rather than grief, and my entire body was wracked with them. Somehow, my aunt always had the power to break my heart at the very moment I experienced true joy. Despite the Master's temper and Carolara's villainy, school had always been my escape. No matter what my aunt said, I  _was_ good at it. The Master was not one for false praise. And just when I had the opportunity to excel further than ever, that chance was gone. Snatched away by my aunt. Now, I was doomed to be surrounded by people like her and Carolara forever. And as I faced the river where Tabby had died, this grim reality had never seemed more tangible.

_She's using you._ The familiar whisper drifted over my ear.  _Just like she always has. Just like she used your father and his good fortune._ It was true, I though sullenly, scuffing a foot against the grass.

_Are you ready to lose everything? Because you will. This is what the end looks like._ I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready at all. A new wave of sobs rose up, but I forced them back down.

_It doesn't have to be this way. Take back control! Beat her at her own game._  My sobs had died away entirely.  _There is only one way out of this._

Slowly, the truth began to dawn on me.

_This_ is  _the end. There is no way around it. But from it, you can make your own beginning. Would you rather condemn yourself to life in a cage? Take the keys into your own hands! This is your liberation._ One or the other, I began to see. And softly, quietly, I made my choice.

* * *

I made a stew for dinner that night. Brigitte was staying in Evermore over the summer, and my uncle had traveled to Shornhelm on business. My aunt was puttering about the next room, and I was sweating over the stove—but not because of the heat. The blooms in my apron pocket seemed to be burning a hole through it, and as I stirred the stew, I tentatively reached for them.

My hands trembled as I dropped them into the stew pot. How many did I need? A single flower? Two? Three? I eyed the stew pot, noting its massive size. All of them, then. I would just have to hope it was enough.

The distinct purple blossoms fluttered into the pot, and quickly disappeared into the depths. As the spoon churned through the stew, no hint of them reemerged. That had to be a good sign. Now it just needed time. I quickly began stoking the fire, piling it with logs until the flames roared up, licking the bottom of the pot.  _Heat!_  I could practically hear the Master screeching in my ear.  _Heat is the catalyst! It releases the effects!_  The stew had reached an angry boil, frantic bubbles making their way up the sides of the pot and threatening to spill over. And just as it began bubbling over, I removed it from the flames.

My aunt immediately scolded me for the stew's temperature when we sat down to eat, but at least it gave me an excuse not to touch it as I idly twirled my spoon through it. However, my hands were shaking, and I fought to keep them still. But when I turned up a limp, blanched petal, my stomach gave such a jolt that I had to drop my hands down to my lap. I had thought that I had fished them all out.

Finally, though, my aunt pushed aside the plate that had held her bread and reached for the stew. I held my breath as she lifted the first bite to her lips, watching with helpless anticipation. But she gave no indication that anything was amiss as she swallowed and took a second bite. Noticing me watching, she paused to shoot a glare my way. "Eat, Antoinetta," she snapped. I obeyed, picking up a slice of bread and taking my time spreading it with an even layer of butter. How long was it supposed to take? What if I hadn't used enough? What if something else in the stew had interfered with the effects? What if she merely became ill in the night? What if healers examined her and found out what had happened? What if I was sent to prison? My pulse began to quicken, but then my aunt spoke.

"Antoinetta, did you do something different?" I glanced up, and my jaw dropped. She was grasping her chest, mouth wide open and gasping for breath. And then before my eyes, her entire body began to twitch, convulsions rattling her entire frame. "Antoinetta," she gasped out, choking. And then, her eyes rolled upward, and she pitched forward, landing face-first in her stew bowl with a wet  _splat_.

Hours passed by, and I didn't move. Shadows lengthened and night fell over the house, but I sat still, staring at my aunt's fallen form. I scarcely dared to believe that it had worked. But then, as the clock in the hall struck midnight, I slowly rose from my chair and tiptoed over to her, trembling fingers reaching out to touch the side of her neck. She was cold. Dead for certain, then. I exhaled, my hand falling back to my side as I straightened my shoulders.

"I'm not going to finishing school."


End file.
